


Stronger

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Insecurity, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: Sometimes, all it takes is a little shove.
Relationships: Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Stronger

Jon was going to have run a hole in the carpet by the time he was done. 

Richie sighed, ran a hand through his hair, which was still damp from the shower he'd finished a few minutes ago, and leaned against the threshold of the bathroom door, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting, patiently, until Jon noticed him. "I'm not going out there, Rich, I can't." Was all that was said before Jon, without awaiting a response or any sort of acknowledgement, sat down and buried his face in his hands. It wasn't like Richie could really see Jon, anyways, in the darkness that was their hotel room, lit only by the light seeping in from the half-closed bathroom that Richie had just left, which bathed the pale carpet in a bright orange glow reminiscent of the sun. 

Everything should've been fine-just peachy, in fact-except it wasn't fine, not at all. Like a precious glass globe, sitting precariously on the edge, dancing toward the darkness below, where it'd shatter if it ever fell, getting closer and closer, away from safety, away from the light, going quickly and easily toward its doom. One day, things were great, and then something happened, some throwaway comment or magazine article that didn't mean anything to the people saying or typing them, but broke through the fragile mask that Jon put on each and every day as easily as scissors through paper. Richie would get his hopes up, hoping that somebody would be mature enough to mention anything but Jon's weight, that it'd say something else, somebody would get new content, think of something original, but yet again, just like every other time, Richie was let down. Then again, he didn't know if this was something Jon has read or if it was brought on by...well, a majority of other things that always sent that globe teetering on the edge, tipping towards its death. 

"Why can't you?" Richie asked. His tone was as calm and as even as anybody could have hoped for, neutral in the panic that was obviously Jon's mind. Sitting down on the bed, opposite of where Jon sat, hunched, on a chair, a weary sort of fear clinging to him, as obvious as if Richie could see it, lingering in the air. Last time Richie had checked, giving a cursory glance at the clock, it'd been thirty minutes till they had to head out, but that's not what he was focusing on, in that moment, in that dark hotel room that smelt of cologne and aftershave, not with the knowledge that Jon could and would pretend he was okay, pretend it was alright, and then at the first chance sneak off and do something that made Richie's stomach churn with the mere thought. 

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going-they'll look at me." Jon paused, as if thinking, and pulled his legs up on the chair with him, folding them so that he was sitting cross-legged in that cramped chair, knees sticking out, the picture of utter defeat, like there was no hope. "I don't look right." Jon added, his voice so faint that even in the silence, such a rarity nowadays, Richie had to strain to hear him. It was painful to hear that, it always was, like a knife through the heart, one that didn't kill you but increased its lethality every time. Richie had struggled, too, with insecurity, with that same anxiety about people looking at you whenever you stepped out on stage, but his fear was directed more toward his face, not like Jon, who seemed convinced that, no matter how low the scale said, no matter how dangerously Jon danced, so close to the edge, that he was fat, which was so far from the truth that it was practically on some other continent, not even part of the equation.

Jon _didn't_ look right, but not in the way that he thought. Far from fat, far from even being chubby, Jon was too skinny, to the point of it being like hugging a skeleton every time they embraced, bones jutting out, never seeming to be enough for a man who strived to be skinny like it was some contest, like they'd gotten to where they were on looks alone. Richie knew Jon had always struggled with it, or, at least, since the time he was a teenager, a young, impressionable kid who thought he was something that he wasn't, and also knew that before Richie had come into the picture, before the circle had been complete, that Jon had barely been eating, starving himself, day in and day out, throwing up whatever the others had gotten him to eat like if it stayed in his body too long it'd kill him, like he wasn't killing himself, slowly but surely. The other guys had tried and tried and were still trying, fighting to keep Jon from falling. A little while after Richie joined, Jon seemed to gain a few pounds, seem to actually get whatever he ate stay in, but shortly after that, it all fell apart again. Nobody had known what to do, what to even think, and looking back, now, Richie wasn't even sure how they'd managed to get through that rough patch. 

"Jon, you look great. There's nothing wrong with how you look, there never has been, never will be. If somebody has a problem with how you look, that's just because they're can't see worth a thing." Richie wasn't sure if what he was saying was right or not. He'd read up on eating disorders, had gone to the library and poured over Google like it was a lifeline because it was a lifeline, little tips that kept them afloat because Jon refused to see anybody. There was no surefire way to talk to somebody dealing with what Jon was, as far as Richie knew. For years and years, Richie had just hoped that whatever seemed right to say was right to say, and that it wouldn't make things worse. "What made you feel like this?" Anything could've. Jon could've brought it on, something Jon read could've, something he saw, something that some dumb idiot could've said. 

Half the time, it was Jon looking in the mirror, scrutinizing every piece of himself, every angle and every turn, lifting up his shirt and staring at his stomach with narrowed eyes. The other times, it was a magazine saying something that all those gossipy housewives drunk up like water in the desert. Richie couldn't keep track of all the times some magazine said a snarky little comment about how Jon looked to be gaining a little weight, even if it was five pounds that barely showed, and whatever progress that had been done would come tumbling down like a house of cards, built with careful and gentle hands, blown down by a stray wind. 

"Nothing." Jon mumbled. He looked up, his hands falling to his lap while shape blue eyes inspected the ceiling, scanning for each blemish like they'd done to his own body so many times. _Too many times._

Richie's frown deepened. That wasn't helpful, not that Jon was particularly assistive during these times, but sometimes, he was a little more articulate with his answers. Looking around the room, he saw no magazines that Jon was likely to pick up, his need for approval driving him to do things that weren't wise, or suggested. He did see Jon's laptop, half-open, sitting on a pillow near where Jon had been sitting before Richie had left to go, under the assumption that everything was fine. It was still up and running, and before Jon noticed, before he even had a chance to look at Richie and realize what he was doing and try to stop him, Richie leaned toward the laptop and grabbed it by the keyboard, adjusting it so that it was fully open and ignoring Jon's startled exclamation. Richie only needed to look at the title of the website, and then the name of the blog, to know what was going on. Usually, Richie let Jon keep his silence about what had brought on this episode, but he wasn't inclined to be patient in that moment.

Jon snatched the laptop back. He pulled it, protectively, to his chest, looking at Richie with a weary, sharp sort of gaze, the one he used when he felt vulnerable, when he was bearing his soul for the world to see and wasn't sure how to deal with it. "Jon.." Richie trailed off, unsure what to say, scrambling for any sort of response, finding himself at a loss. He stood and walked toward where Jon sat, silent, and crouched down. 

Oh, how a dream could, so quickly, turn into a nightmare. 

"You don't have to perform tonight." That much was for sure. Reaching up, Richie traced his finger against Jon's cheek, stilling his hand when Jon leaned into his touch. "We'll stay here. There's always tomorrow, and I'm sure the guys'll be glad to have a night off." No question about that. They've been working tirelessly, and not having to go and play without pause for three hours would surely be a nice treat. 

"I'm sorry." Jon mumbled. It wrenched at Richie's heart, hearing that whisper of apology that wasn't needed or warranted. Why, why, _why,_ could Jon not see what Richie did? 

"You're alright. No reason to apologize, Babe." Richie replied. He moved his arm so that it was placed behind Jon's back, and pulled from into a hug, a moment of comfort in this mess, wrapping his arms right around Jon's too-skinny torso, feeling Jon reciprocate. And just feeling Jon's arms around him, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of breathing, seemed to make the darkness a little bit brighter. 

' _You're perfection. If not to you, then to me.'_

**Author's Note:**

> No such blog exists, and I'm pretty sure no magazine has ever commented on Jon's weight.


End file.
